John's Fall
by Natalie Nallareet
Summary: This game of Moriarty's is much like chess, and to get a checkmate it's easiest to get rid of the essential pieces first, the ones that matter most to the king. Instead of causing the king to fall, Moriarty instead aims for his heart, the queen.


**A/C** I've been meaning to write this one for a long time and it was very refreshing to do something for johnlock after such a long break. An au of the original reichenbach, Moriarty instead causing the entire of Sherlock to fall, just focusing on his heart.

* * *

John felt a stir of fear build up inside him as he looked numbly at the phone clenched in his hands. No, not her...that was just a new form of completely low evil.

"What is it?" Sherlock mumbled

"Paramedics-Mrs Hudson-she's been shot," John announces, placing the phone into the pocket. He turns towards Sherlock, who's sitting on the rolling chair in the room in St. Bart's, his legs stretched out before him, positively lounging with his feet up on the desk. An impassive look on his face. John doesn't know how he can seem so relaxed right now. The entire world besides the two of them believes that he's a complete fraud, Moriarty is after him, tearing him apart along the way-and now one of the gunmen he had lured close to the house has shot the sweetest woman either of them know.

"What-how?" Sherlock responds, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. John doesn't understand why, though-the reasons could be in the hundreds-their business certainly lured enough people who would be willing to hurt her near the flat.

"Probably one of the killers you managed to attack-Jesus-Jesus," John shakes his head slowly, trying to clear it. Mrs Hudson at the hospital, as they spoke, dying. That couldn't be real-she couldn't be actually dying. "She's dying, Sherlock-let's go."

"You go, I'm busy."

John can't believe his ears. Busy? Could he actually be serious? He can't be too busy to visit Mrs. Hudson on her deathbed-that was just impossible. Besides, he wasn't doing anything. He was sitting there, just waiting for Moriarty to make his next move. There wasn't anything that could make him busy. John twisted back around, fixing Sherlock with a death glare. "Busy?"

"Thinking, I need to think." Such an impassive voice, not caring, not even bothering to pretend that he's concerned for Mrs. Hudson. Though, of course, he isn't concerned-there's nothing to pretend there.

"You need to-doesn't she mean anything to you?" John blinks back the rage that's still causing all of his limbs to be stiffen beside him. "You once half-killed a man because he laid a finger on her."

"She's my landlady."

"She's dying...you machine-sod this, sod this. You stay here if you want, alone."

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

"Nope." John hears the satisfying click of the door as he opens it for himself, his jacket in the other hand. He glances back at Sherlock, practically seething with anger. The idiot before him shouldn't even be on his own-it's really the last thing he needs with Moriarty after him. "Friends protect people." He exits the door, it falling behind him with a small clang. He's got to get to Mrs. Hudson, has to find some way to keep her from dying. Sherlock would have to cope.

He feels absolutely numb, with such a boiling anger radiating through him. He calls over the first cab that he sees once on the street, distractedly getting in the back seat. It already feels wrong to be leaving Sherlock, but his need to find Mrs Hudson is much greater. He's, however, not wrapped up too far into his thoughts so that he doesn't notice the click of all the doors locking in his cab. His eyes immediately fly over, seeing that his own door's lock has been sealed off, something completely out of the ordinary. His eyes narrow in suspicion-it doesn't make much sense. He spots the cabby in the front seat, the back of a head of black hair. Could be anyone. Could be him. What sets John off is seeing that there's another man in the front seat. He pulls out his gun and aims at the cabby.

"No need to get excited, Johnny boy," Moriarty's voice drawls, not even flinching back but continuing to drive.

John's eyes twitch to the side at the flicker of a different weapon, which the man sitting in the other seat has turned towards John, an armed pistol directed just as solidly as John's own hand.

"Drop it," the stranger snarls.

"There's nothing keeping you from shooting me now if I do," John responds, wondering if Mrs Hudson is hurt at all. Probably not; he has most likely just fallen for something to lure him out of the building without Sherlock's notice. Idiot. Had Sherlock known it couldn't be real?

The man snorts. "Nothing really keeping me from shooting you now. You won't have the time."

"Want to test that?"

"There's no need for anything rash. There are better ways to kill you, much better. Just put down the gun and we can discuss this," Moriarty insists.

"What is 'this'?" John responds, lowering his gun and putting it in the seat.

Moriarty doesn't have a chance to respond before someone springs up from the back of the car, wrapping a piece of cloth in their hands around John's mouth and nose. He tries to throw them off, but with every movement feels weaker. The sweet scent of chloroform sticks to the air, making too much sense to John in relation to the faintness that's seizing him. He only lasts a few more seconds before passing out completely.

* * *

When John wakes up, he's not in the cab, but instead is rushed by a chilly wind that buffets where he's hunkered down. He slowly opens his eyes, his head pounding at the movement, everything far too bright. He has to blink his eyes to shield them from the sun, taking in the scene before him; a roof; high up; Jim Moriarty lounging to the side.

Jim Moriarty.

Of course he hadn't been trying to kill John with the chloroform, despite the fact that such a thing could have been possible. No, now they're on a roof, a much more desperate settings then before. He automatically feels his back pocket for his gun, but knows before he even gets there that it's gone. Still, he gets to his feet, rolling from his uncomfortable position of lying down. His head is hammering, but he forces himself to concentrate on the task at hand. He has to get out of here, has to get back to Sherlock.

"Look who's up," Jim greets, looking over lazily from where he sits. "The rising star of the next film, the actor of the hour."

John's mind is buzzing with the lies Moriarty has been selling-the fact that he's an actor Sherlock hired. He feels numb as he tries to process what Moriarty must be saying about him. He's not an actor, but has to be referencing his plot in some form. John feels sick, he needs to get back to Sherlock. He wants no part in whatever Moriarty has planned.

"I'm not an actor," John responds, not bothering to shake his head so he can keep his eyes firmly planted on Moriarty. "Never done any acting before."

"You're going to have to learn quickly, then," Moriarty responds, twisting his voice so it comes out lower, a bemused smile on his face. "You have the opening number. Don't worry, though; we won't have to be immediate. There are lines to learn."

"Where are we?" John questions stiffly.

"Top of the building that he's in. St. Bart's. Don't tell me you don't recognize the view. Should be a comfortable enough place to die." Moriarty says all of this in a perfectly even tone, his eyes just as set on John. The words chill the soldier but don't cause him to pause. He's expecting death threats, perhaps even death itself, but that doesn't mean he's going to lie down and die without a fight. "Gunmen on the rooftops, capable of shooting you easily if you so much as stray towards the door or if you're...unhelpful."

"What makes you think that's incentive to go along with you killing me?" John asks. He knows he's way out of league in terms of talking himself out of this, but such an idea is ridiculous.

"Oh, that's not your incentive," Moriarty assures him, an easy grin upon his lips. He stands up, hands in his pocket he begins to circle John. "Just enough to get you to listen to what I have to say before the real cards are thrown onto the table." Jim pauses, his eyes stuck to John, not even bothering to blink. "You really are slow, though; don't see what Sherlock likes in you."

John stays silent, ignoring his jab at him and Sherlock. That's none of Moriarty's business, and even then it's something John's glad he doesn't understand. It's nowhere that Jim should be sticking his nose into.

"Your task, Johnny boy, your final task, is to first send Sherlock the simple message of 'stand outside the building.' Nothing else, no signing. Just those words. Then you stand on the edge and you talk to him on the phone, you convince him that he's what drove you there. That your love for him destroyed him. Then you jump off." The glee is his voice is unmistakable, and every word that slips from the spider's tongue makes John feel sick.

"I won't do that," John assures him, confident in his tone. Because he's positive of that. His fingers are clenched into fists, shaking just as they always have been under pressure. He is completely shaken, though, more than he's ever been in his entire life. Not only does Moriarty expect him to die, but he expects John to do it in front of Sherlock, before tearing the genius down with his own words. That's nothing that he'd ever do. It doesn't matter what happened to John, doesn't matter if he'll disappear without a trace-Sherlock never quite knowing what happened, but only able to guess. None of that matters. If John's going to die, he's not doing it in a way that will destroy Sherlock. It's something he's not willing to do, or will ever be willing to do. He cares about Sherlock too much for that. And, of course, it's that very fact that causes everything about the situation to hurt so goddamn much. The fact that makes this plan so horrible and utterly perfect for Moriarty. "You must be truly insane to ever believe that I'd do a thing like that."

"Oh, you will do it; that, I'm certain of." John can hear it in his voice, too. Moriarty has never been so positive in his presence. His eyes are gleaming, such a wide smile upon his lips. It's already a victory in his mind, he's already shot the barrel of the terminating bullet.

"You're sure of that, aren't you?"

"There's no possibility of you denying your role. If you don't do precisely what I say, he'll be the one to die, instead. No matter what you do, you'll destroy him. And, of course, there's only one path you can take that could possibly lead to his recovery. After all, he would need more of a heart to be fatally wounded by this little drama."

John swallows. He knows Moriarty's right, and he despises it. It's obvious that Moriarty is more than willing to go through with killing Sherlock-would probably enjoy such a thing. John can't bare that happening, it's the soldiers weakness. He can't lose Sherlock, more than anything else. He has to do as Moriarty says.

"So I tell him to come down then call him over the phone?"

"Yes. You tell him exactly how much you love him, how much that love has destroyed you. Because you now know, Johnny boy, that Sherlock is nothing but a fraud, and it has destroyed you. Then you end it."

John doesn't bother answering. He doesn't need to. He feels absolutely nauseated by what is going on. Still, he takes out his phone and manages to punch the numbers in. Numbly, he realizes that it's suspicious he's typing out part and calling afterwards. Still, he guesses it only makes sense. Otherwise, he'll be too shaky, too suspicious. Sherlock's clever, he would have been able to figure it out.

stand outside the building

Enter.

He wants to type out morse code through the letters, signal an SOS from his usually correctly spaced lettering. John can't, though, as Moriarty's watching him type over his shoulder and would be sure to then actually kill Sherlock.

John can't destroy Sherlock. He can die, he doesn't fear dying. But that's not what the largest thing is at stake here; not in his mind, at least. He can't let Sherlock feel such destruction. Not from him-not through anything. He cares too much. He's always cared too damn much, from the moment the two of them shook hands on the very building he's standing on.

Where are you?

-SH

"Don't respond. He's coming," Moriarty insists, confident in his words.

A pause.

John?

-SH

John's not so sure of Jim's theory, but trusts him to know Sherlock's movements. Sure enough, John soon sees the thin figure walk out onto the sidewalk from the edge of the rooftop, Sherlock's usual coat drawn around him to shield him from the wind. It's then that the tears start to form on the edges of John's eyes. This is really happening, and Sherlock isn't even properly up here, won't be able to tell that there is a need to get out of the situation. He'll think John's both the culprit and the enemy, freezing Sherlock on the ground.

"Dial," the single command hisses from Moriarty's lips.

John lifts his phone to his ear, hitting the send button. John hates the fact that we won't even have a quivering voice, hates the fact that it'll be taken as some great bravery. Hates that it will hurt Sherlock even more.

"Sherlock?" His voice still comes out dry, husky, and he realizes that his throat is rather sore, something he's been able to ignore. It's understandable, though; he's not sure when it was that he had something to drink last.

"John? Where are you? Are you with him?" Sherlock's questions are straight to the point, snapped into place with such a delicate trace of curtness to the syllables. He suspects, might even think he knows. Oh, God, John hopes he knows.

"Look up, on the roof," John murmurs, knowing that saying anything else could get Sherlock to stop talking for good.

"John?" There's a degree of panic in his voice now, however calmed it may sound; John knows him well enough to hear it lurking there. He moves to go back into the building. "What the hell?"

"Please-please stay down there," John forces out hurriedly. "You won't make it up in time."

"John?" This time John almost thinks it sounds pleading.

"I need to...need to talk to you."

"Is he up there with you? Is he forcing you to answer?"

John paused, hoping that if he did so long enough Sherlock would understand. He hears a barely audible hiss behind him, signaling for him to continue.

"No, I came up here on my own. Sherlock... you've always-I've always admired you. You're brilliant...remarkable-I love you Sherlock, always have."

"Stop it," Sherlock cuts in, and now he does sound truly panicked. He's not moving, but stiff in place below John, their eyes locked within each other's.

"Can't. You need to know. Deserve to. I'm not going to pretend the way that you did, I'm not going to lie to you. I've had to face it, the fact that you're a fraud-that you've always been." His voice cracks. He can't do this, can't sell this lie to him. It's not fair. None of his bravery of the past matters if he goes does like this, if he leaves Sherlock with these words. But he has to, otherwise they'll both just be dead bodies. The world can't afford to lose a mind like Sherlock's, and John can't afford to lose any of him. So he continues, forces the words from his lips. "I'm sorry. Goodbye."

"No-" Sherlock's response is cut off as he drops the phone, the small device clattering to the ground. The drop John's about to undertake. He doesn't move his eyes from Sherlock even as he steps forwards and begins to fall.


End file.
